


Ridiculous

by DictionaryWrites



Series: Fracture and Repair [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Banter, Complicated Relationships, M/M, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-09-02 02:03:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16777429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: Whenever somebody makes an attempt on Severus' life, it is Auror Potter who deals with him.





	Ridiculous

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt, "You owe me a kiss."

“You owe me,” is the first thing Potter says, and Severus inhales through his nostrils, gritting his teeth together. Were there some merciful force in the universe, Severus thinks - even a _remotely_ merciful force, or some spirit of justice, or indeed, _anything..._

Well.

In all likelihood, there is some such creation spread throughout the weave of the world at large, and thus why Severus’ torture goes on even now.

“Auror Potter,” Severus says, in the most patient tone he can muster which, in fact, is not very patient at all. His voice is very low, and he speaks slowly and stiffly, through his teeth with his jaw tightly clenched. “In what manner, pray tell, do you believe that I owe you?”

“Well,” Potter says, with an insufferable smirk on his face, and Severus scowls at him, his arms tightly crossed over his chest. “I’ve just saved your life.”

“In delaying the sweet release of my death, Potter, one could argue that you have done me an inconvenience.” Potter stares at him for a second, his green eyes widening just slightly - Lily had never done that. Lily had never used her eyes the way that Potter uses them now (and Potter had never used these features like his son does now). Funny, how differently--

And of course, neither of them had lived this long.

Potter is approaching thirty now, and his age is showing prematurely. That’s the case in many of his compatriots, but especially in Potter himself: Severus can see the deep shadows under his eyes, the slight sallowness to his cheeks, the slight wrinkling showing either side of his eye, and frown lines on his brow. 

And then he smiles, and it’s as if it all fades away: frown lines give way to laughter lines, and there’s a glow to his visage, to the way that he _beams_... Severus tips his head back against the ceramic green brick of the wall, and he glances toward the ceiling. The corridor outside of Potter’s office, at least, is mercifully empty of traffic. Severus is fairly certain the boy moves it every month or so, because in the now _six_ attempts on Severus’ life that have landed him here in the Ministry of Magic, the labyrinth of corridors leading to Potter’s desk has seemed entirely different. This aids him, Severus presumes, in his understandable avoidance of so-called journalists. 

“Don’t smile at me,” Severus says.

“You owe me,” Potter repeats. “I saved your life _again_ , Severus - that’s twice this year.”

“Mr Snape is my name,” Severus says.

“Alright, _Mr Snape_ ,” Potter says, like he’s actually _struggling_ not to smile, and failing. It’s a handsome smile. Severus doesn’t care for it. “Come to dinner with me.”

“No.”

“Come for a romantic walk with me.”

“No.” Potter looks thoughtful for a second, his arms loosely crossed over his chest, and then he nods to the door behind him. 

“Let’s go into my office now and I’ll ride you on my desk.” Severus’ shocked pause is infinitesimal, but Potter’s smug expression declares in printed script that he catches it.

“ _No_.”

“Oh, Severus, _come on_ ,” Potter says, uncrossing his arms and looking at Severus with a pleading expression on his face. “I’ve been asking you out for five years now - all whilst _waiting_ , by the way, for the minimum prerequisite age of twenty-three that you declared any potential partner must meet. An arbitrary prerequisite, in my opinion.”

“I didn’t declare that,” Severus says. “I stated it, calmly, and in an even voice.”

“What’s the difference between that and a declaration?”

“A declaration is something of a spectacle. I made no spectacle.”

“You absolutely made a spectacle: you were _sloshed_.”

“I was not,” Severus says. “ _You_ were very drunk, and I was sober and deadpan.”

“You are usually sober and deadpan, that does make sense, in retrospect.” Potter has taken two steps closer, and Severus presses his thin lips tightly together as Potter looks down at him. “Do I make you uncomfortable?”

“You couldn’t make me uncomfortable if you used every dark curse under the sun.”

“I meant emotionally, not _physically_.”

“Haven’t you heard? I don’t have emotions.” Potter exhales, and his lips twitch, the expression... _Fond_. There’s no one else in the world that would still smile at him fondly, like that. 

“Yes, you do,” Potter says softly. “You owe me. You owe me-- You owe me a kiss.”

“A kiss,” Severus repeats. “You are _prepubescent_.”

“That’s not true,” Potter argues. “I’m over the arbitrary age of twenty-three and everything.” Severus tries to control the twitch of his lip, and is unsuccessful: Potter’s beam is like sunshine.

“You’re aging very quickly,” Severus says in a punishing tone. “Have you started dyeing your hair yet?” Potter blinks at him, and then he smiles, but the smile is just slightly forced.

“Oh, I’ve been dyeing it for nearly seven years now,” Potter says, in a tone close to casual, but not quite passing the threshold. “It’s not even a nice white, or anything. It’s just shades of dark grey, as if the Dulux dog was painting a prison cell and couldn’t pick a shade.” Severus is struck, abruptly and with immense weight, with the urge to apologize. Ridiculous. _Ridiculous_. 

“I dye mine,” Severus says.

“Really?” Potter says, visibly eager for any detail about Severus’ life.

“No,” Severus says. For a moment, Potter stares, and then he laughs again, turning his head away. Severus sees his face in profile, shadowed in the dimly lit corridor, and then he sees the smile slowly fade from his face, replaced with a vague approximation of what Severus assumes is intended as professional integrity. 

“I’m sure I should let you go, Mr Snape,” he says quietly. “I’ve taken up enough of your time.” Severus rises to leave, and Potter says, “But--” Severus freezes.

“But?”

“But you owe me a kiss.”

“Do I.”

“You do.”

“I don’t.”

“You _do_.”

“No.”

“A date?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Marriage, then.” Severus, entirely without meaning to, laughs. It’s shocked out of him, a dark little chuckle that rips itself from between his teeth without his permission, and Potter is staring at him in such shock, his mouth gaping like a fish. “Is that a yes?”

“Do you always take incredulity for an affirmative?”

“I’d take anything you gave me, at this point,” Potter says. “But--”

“Yes, yes, consider yourself heard, Potter. I owe you a kiss.” He takes a slow step forward, his boot making not the slightest sound on the tiled floor, and he brings them closer together, close enough that he can smell the cigarette smoke Potter never bothers to disguise when he’s alone with Severus (not that Severus cares, or that he’s ever mentioned it, or that it matters), close enough that he can smell the lingering scent of broom wax and the leather of his gloves (he’d flown out to meet Severus and Sidealong with him, for he is denied an Apparition license as part of his parole)... He can smell Potter’s shampoo - it’s a Muggle shampoo. Women’s shampoo. Severus doesn’t know if that means anything. 

“You smell of the apothecary,” Potter whispers.

“Yes, Potter,” Severus says with faux patience. “I work there.” He leans in closer, so that his nose brushes against Potter’s, and he feels the burn of self-loathing in his chest, all across his skin: it is made worse by the way that Potter parts his lips and leans _up_ , moving closer to Severus instead of drawing his face away. “You don’t have anything to say?” Severus asks in a low voice.

“I work here,” Potter chokes out.

“That is... startlingly unintelligent.”

“No, I meant--”

“Too late. You’ve said what you’ve said, and we must both live with it.”

“You’re making me sound like an idiot!”

“You do that on your own.” Potter tilts his head, and Severus puts his palm on the younger man’s chest and holds him still before he can close the gap. “If I kiss you,” Severus whispers, “you must promise to stop this. Entirely and utterly, you must cease this obscene campaign you have no doubt characterised in your own mind as romantic.”

“If it makes you uncomfortable,” Potter begins, and Severus scoffs.

“I am not _uncomfortable_.”

“Do you think I’m attractive?”

“I think you’re an idiot.”

“But an attractive idiot?”

“A stupid idiot.” 

A pause. Potter’s eyes meet with Severus’, looking searchingly at the depths of his unfeeling, black eyes.

“I’m not imagining it, am I?” Potter asks. “I am making progress. You are letting me get closer, quarter-inch by quarter-inch.”

“You’re very close to me right now,” Severus allows.

“I meant emotionally,” Potter says. “Not physically.”

“You keep repeating yourself.”

“For ten years now. You keep repeating yourself too.” Severus’ lips twitch, and he shifts his fingers on Potter’s chest, feeling the silken green of his Auror’s robe. “I just don’t want you to say no to me on the basis that you think you don’t, um... I don’t know, that you don’t deserve _anyone_. That you think you deserve to be punished, or lonely.” Severus scowls again. 

“Have you considered my refusals are coming on the basis that I despise to be psychoanlysed?”

“Oh, I’ll stop, if you kiss me. I won’t psychoanalyse anybody ever again,” Potter promises.

“Your Auror work might suffer in the wake of such a vow.”

“Bollocks to the Auror work. I’ll become a waiter.” They stand there, together, in the dim light. Severus can feel Potter’s breath against his mouth and his chin, and he wonders what it would be like, to close the gap between them, to kiss him. He’s wondered about it, on and off, for the better part of ten years. Severus Snape is an awful man - he’s aware of this. “Are you going to kiss me, maybe? Or let me kiss you?”

“Not today,” Severus decides, and he walks down the corridor. He feels Potter staring after him, but for once, Potter doesn’t call anything after him, or try to call him back.

Severus’ robes feel too tight and too heavy, and he has a fleeting wish that someone else might come to the apothecary today with the vague view of murdering him, and then feels foolish for such a childish thought. 

_I’m not imagining it, am I?_

Ridiculous.

Ridiculous. 

**Author's Note:**

> [Hit me up on Tumblr](http://dictionarywrites.tumblr.com/faq). Requests always open.


End file.
